Immortality Means Never Dying
by Snotty Mcgee
Summary: (WARNING: Chapter 4 contains an over-abundance of coffee related puns.) Oliver and Myrnin engaged in some trifling affairs. Various drabbles, vaguely linear, vaguely Oliver/Myrnin
1. If Life Ain't Just A Joke

"Have you seen Claire?"

Oliver finally looked up from his paperwork, having ignored the knock on the door, the opening of said door approximately half a second later, and the intrusion of the another person into his small office. It was foolish to hope that Myrnin might leave without speaking. That was even less likely than the sun spontaneously imploding, not that he would complain if it did, because vampire.

Oliver sighed. "No. Why?"

Myrnjn shrugged gracelessly, the movement somewhat impeded by the way he was leaning against the doorframe. He just looked as though he was rubbing himself on it, like a cat trying to leave its scent behind. Oliver wasn't entirely sure that wasn't what was going on.

"She did not come to the lab today. I thought she might have stopped to buy coffee." He executed the weird shrug-rub movement again, and Oliver's eyes narrowed.

"What are you doing?" He said sharply.

Myrnin did shrug this time.

"I itch," He rolled his eyes as he spoke as if it were obvious, but there was a challenging tone to his voice that Oliver didn't miss, and it confused him. Had Myrnin come all this way just to pick a fight? He shrugged mentally, and picked up his pen again.

"Go and itch somewhere else."

Abruptly, Myrnin stopped rubbing himself against the door frame, standing straight and glaring at him.

"Fine."

Before Oliver could do more than raise a bemused eyebrow, Myrnin was gone, flashing at vampire-speed through the packed coffee shop. Oliver spent almost ten whole seconds feeling equally bemused and irritated before chalking Myrnin's behaviour up to the man being insane, and went back to his accounts.


	2. Why Are We Laughing?

The next time he saw Myrnin was at the fortnightly council meeting. He was late as usual, arriving well after they'd begun, pulling a harassed-looking Claire along behind him. He sat opposite Oliver and proceeded to stare intently at him for almost the entire meeting, his concentration only broken when Amelie began to talk about the prospect of making some changes to his funding.

Oliver found Myrnin's gaze more irritating than disconcerting, like a fly one couldn't quite be bothered to swat away; however, judging by the way young Claire's brow was furrowed, he wasn't the only one who'd noticed Myrnin's apparent fixation. The man was just staring. It wasn't even in a malevolent or taunting way, as Oliver was used to. He merely looked... thoughtful.

It took Oliver twenty minutes to decide he didn't care for it, so when they broke up after an hour to allow for everyone to gather their thoughts and get some fresh air, he spoke up.

"Would you stop that?" He snapped.

Myrnin blinked lazily, the pink tip of his tongue darting out to slide across his lower lip before he replied.

"Stop what?" He asked, not even trying to sound like he didn't know exactly what Oliver meant. Oliver just growled quietly, deciding it wasn't worth the bother, and went back to reading through his notes.

Myrnin kept up whatever stupid game he was playing all through the rest of the meeting, only he seemed to have kicked it up a few notches. Oliver could feel his gaze even when he wasn't looking, like a physical sensation from across the table. Whenever he did happen to catch Myrnin's eyes, they were darkened and burning with some kind of weird intensity, like he was trying to beam a message across to him. Unless the message was_ Please punch me really hard in my smug Welsh face_, Oliver wasn't getting it, and he made himself wait longer after the meeting than he normally would so Myrnin wouldn't think he was unsettled by it.

He told himself that the knowing smile Myrnin sent his way before leaving the room didn't mean that he knew it anyway.


	3. I Have The Right To Shove You Down

In the course of the daily running of his business, amidst his duties as Amelie's official second, Oliver didn't have much time left to himself. In fact he often spent his 'break' locked into his office at Common Grounds - the thing was soundproofed, thank God - either working through the ever-present mountain of paperwork on his desk, or thinking about starting on it. So when he finally got home at the end of a long day and slipped into the cool darkness of his hall, turning the lock behind him with a feeling of relief, the last thing he wanted to hear as he shrugged out of his heavy coat was the sound of the doorbell ringing.

But he did.

Oliver stopped with his back to the door, listening as the last mechanical peals of the bell died away. There was some shuffling outside the door, but no heartbeat that he could discern. Then came a sharp, impatient rapping of knuckles on the wood. Oliver swore and span round on his heel, striding back towards the door, wrenching the lock back and pulling it open, barely remembering to school his expression into one of _not-anger_ as he did so.

He needn't have bothered. On his doorstep, dark blue fedora casting a crescent shadow over his pale face, stood Myrnin. He was shifting from foot to foot, agitated by the evening sun.

"How do you even know where I live?" Oliver blurted, before he'd thought of just slamming the door again. A wave of irritation broke gently across the shore inside him.

"Followed you," Myrnin answered shortly out of the side of his mouth, for once not treating the English language like a Christmas tree in need of decoration, "Can I come in?"

Oliver blinked at the man, taking note of the faint odour of something cooking which was beginning to pervade the air around him. He nodded briefly and stepped aside to allow the other vampire to pass into the shelter of the house, thinking as he shut the door that this would be as good an opportunity as any to just kill Myrnin once and for all.

"What do you want?" He asked bluntly as he walked past Myrnin down the narrow hall, leading him further in, into a reception area. Oliver's idea of interior design was minimal at best; the room was decorated in subdued, neutral colours, containing a handful of armchairs and a sofa, a coffee table and sideboards all in dark wood. A large oil painting over the fireplace was the only piece of decor, depicting a scene from _A Midsummer Night's Dream_.

Myrnin surveyed the room critically before sitting in the nearest chair, draping his coat over the arm and removing his fedora. Oliver glanced around the room himself, judging whether it was acceptable. He thought so. Every single item of furniture was high quality; simple, yet elegant. Maybe there wasn't much decoration, but most of his personal items were in other rooms of the house. This room was for guests - he had seen no reason to go overboard with unnecessary decoration.

Oliver let the silence drag for a moment, leaning against the wall with his arms crossed. The only sound was the tap-tap-tap of Myrnin's heel on the hardwood floor as his leg jittered, the fedora perched on his knee bobbing up and down in time with his nervous beat. An impatient breath hissed through Oliver's teeth.

"Well?"

Myrnin actually started, as if he'd forgotten where he was. Looking distracted, he picked up the hat from his knee and placed it on his head briefly before appearing to think better of it and removing it again.

"Um, yes," He said, blankly. And then, "I've been thinking."

Oliver smirked.

"I highly doubt that."

Myrnin flapped his hands a little, dislodging the fedora from his knee. It fell to the floor with a surprisingly heavy-sounding _thump_.

"No, really," He insisted.

Oliver was silent for a moment while he recovered from the triple shocks of Myrnin ignoring a jibe, a felt hat making the kind of noise one would expect from an errant bowling ball as it hit the floor, and _Myrnin ignoring a jibe_.

"What," He said carefully, "Are you talking about?"

"I really think we should spend more time together."

There was a pause.

"Get out." Oliver said.

"But-"

"Out, get out! Now!" Oliver roared, gesturing firmly towards the door in an attempt to precipitate Myrnin's departure. Myrnin just sat there, his mouth moving but no words coming forth. "Out!" Oliver repeated, stamping his foot to emphasise the point and feeling his heel sink into the surface of his lovely hardwood floor.

Myrnin finally stood, wringing his hands. He began to say something which sounded suspiciously like an apology, but Oliver had already grabbed him by the lapels and was forcibly dragging him down the hallway.

"-maybe it came out the wrong way, or you misunderstood, I don't know, but actually I-"

Myrnin's voice cut off once the door was slammed in his face, and Oliver was rewarded with the sounds of his footsteps retreating from the house. He waited for a few moments to be sure the madman had really left, then actually sighed with relief, pinching the bridge of his nose in an attempt to dispel his sudden headache. It didn't work.

He had no idea what Myrnin had been talking about, but was convinced it was part of the man's apparent mission to drive Oliver insane. That was the second time he'd had to hold an unnecessary conversation with him, which was two times too many in his opinion. He walked back to the lounge intending to follow through with his initial plans of relaxing on the sofa with a book, but, taking in the fedora lying on the floor next to a perfect impression of the boot Oliver was currently wearing on his left foot, he decided that perhaps sleep was a better option. Hopefully he would dream up a way to murder Myrnin and make it look like an accident.


	4. Coffee's For Closers

"Mocha, please. Extra cream, no sprinkles."

Oliver knew who it was without having to look. Partly because she always ordered the same thing, but mostly because he could smell the blood pumping through her veins. Sweet and tangy, only a little tainted because Myrnin had already fed from her, claimed her. As Oliver turned to Claire, Mocha in hand, he wondered whether she knew this - knew what any vampire who came within ten feet of her would know instantly; that she belonged to Myrnin. He thought not; Myrnin was still alive, after all.

"Nothing for Myrnin, today?" He asked as she passed her the coffee, only mildly interested in the answer. Her eyes narrowed.

"No," She said, with a hint of petulance, "He always makes me bring it back."

"I'd noticed," Oliver said dryly.

"There's never even anything wrong with it!" Claire continued indignantly, "He just wants to annoy you."

Oliver had begun to regret the decision to engage her in conversation, but the mention of Myrnin and the possibility of an accomplice in Oliver's never-ending quest to mock and publicly disparage the man made him perk up again. He rolled his eyes and draped his cloth over one shoulder, playing it cool.

"Well, what do you expect from a man who wears a frock coat with Hawaiian shorts?" He snorted derisively, "he clearly has no taste in fashion, why should his taste in coffee be any different?"

Claire peered at him dubiously for a moment, as if unsure whether or not she was allowed to laugh (they were breaking boundaries here for the longest amicable conversation ever held between them), before letting out a tentative giggle.

"I guess he just _espressos_ his opinions too much," She said seriously, a moment later.

Oliver stared at her.

"That was terrible."

Claire shrugged apologetically.

"Sorry..." There was a pause, and Oliver watched with something close to intrigue as she fought and lost an internal battle, "I shouldn't _mocha_ him." She collapsed into giggles, despite the fact that Oliver was glaring at her disapprovingly. The effect was probably lessened by the fact that the corners of his mouth were twitching upwards. "He always complains that it tastes like mud," Claire manage between laughs - "_I know_," Oliver muttered - "And I say 'That's because it was just ground this morning!'"

Reluctantly, Oliver conceded that Claire seemed to have a remarkable knack for making coffee jokes. If he didn't know better, he would have suspected she'd been storing them up for just such an opportunity. He allowed himself to crack a small smile as he waited for her to finish laughing.

"You had better not spend too much time in here, Claire," He said carefully when she straightened up, wiping her eyes, "...or you'll be _latte_ for work."

Claire cracked up again, snorting into her coffee cup.

"That was a good one!" She gasped, before catching the hint from Oliver's meaningful look and grabbing her purse, turning to head for the door. Halfway there, she turned around, calling out, "I've got another one!" Oliver had the urge to cover his face with his hands. People in his coffee shop were _looking_. He glared at Claire. "No, no, it's a good one! Myrnin must be a matador, right..." She said, plunging recklessly into the joke, "...because he likes his coffee _au lait_!" She finished and stared at Oliver expectantly, as if waiting for him to laugh and applaud. He did neither.

"Latte. For. Work." He said firmly, pointing to the door. Claire sighed dramatically, throwing a hand in the air - the one not clutching the styrofoam coffee cup.

"Fine, fine."

Oliver turned his back on the shop as she left, and told himself that it was because the counter needed cleaning, not so he could hide his chuckles from the rest of the world. He also pretended he didn't hear Claire's muttered "It's _bean_ nice talking to you," as the door swung shut behind her.


End file.
